40k Fanfic (requesting reviews)

[Silvia Crow]

Current working title (defiantly subject to change) is "A Texan in the Emperor's Court".

NOTE TO READER: CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS GREATLY APPRECIATED. SERIOUSLY, I'M STARVING FOR REVIEWS AND CRITIQUES HERE.

Chapter 1 - Wake up and smell the Promethium

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It was morning. At least, it felt like morning. It was a strange sensation, not knowing what time it was. Before the young man could open his eyes though, he heard yelling in a language he didn't immediately recognize. He was grabbed by the arms and hauled out of bed shortly after being seized. Just as he managed to open his eyes, a bag was forced over his head, something smacked him in the back of the head, and he was out like a light once more.

The first thing he noticed when he awoke a second time was that his head hurt like mad. The second thing was that his hands were tied to what he could only assume was a chair. He groaned, and a few seconds later, that bag was yanked off his head. There was a brief moment of disorientation, and then everything came into focus, more or less. From what he could see, there was a table in front of him, a light hanging from the ceiling above the table, and a chair sitting across from him, which was currently empty. He looked around, and even though the rest of the room was dark, it felt like someone else was here.

"Anyone here?" asked the boy, his tone irritable and tired as opposed to scared. What was there to be scared of anyway right now? Maybe it was the lack of a threat, maybe it was him suffering from shock from his rude awakening. Either way, the young man was feeling rather mellow.

"Ah, so it can speak." came a voice from the shadows. The voice was gruff, but defiantly female. The accent was…strange. There was a hint of Queen's English in there, but it sounded different. Out of the shadows stepped an imposing woman in a long military greatcoat with epaulets on the shoulders and a rather large, peaked hat. Her hair was black and falling in surprisingly long ringlets for someone that, apparently, wore a military uniform. Her left eye was covered in a black patch, and a long, nasty looking scar stretched down from the lower part of the patch, stopping at an almost right angle on her jawline. There were ranks, insignias and motifs all over her uniform, but most the man couldn't make out. One he did see sent a shiver up and down his spine.

It was a double headed eagle.

He had only ever seen such an insignia in science fiction. Either someone was playing a sick, sick trick on him, or...

"I will give you ten seconds to tell me who you are." said the woman, withdrawing what was obviously a gun. Judging from the size and general shape, it was a laspistol.

And now the man was scared. "Woah woah woah!" said the man sitting back, "No need for that! My name is Michael. I'm…" He looked at the woman's uniform, then back at her face. "I'm a civilian."

"Right," she said, the tone in her voice making it clear she didn't trust him, "And what were you doing in the barracks?" Michael noted that she didn't bother lowering the pistol.

"I swear by everything good and Holy that I don't know. I just woke up there." The woman pointed the pistol at him, and he began to actually panic. "I'm telling the truth! Why would I lie to the person pointing a gun at me?!"

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This…man, she supposed she'd term him, was interesting to say the least. His accent was archaic at best (in modern terms, his accent is generic American with a very slight southern drawl), his clothing was strange, and the fact that he appeared in the bunk room of the barracks was just down right bizarre. Taking a further look at him, the woman realized that he probably was, in fact, a civilian. His hair, which was a dark brown and mostly straight, curling a little at the very ends, was too long for military regulation. It hung down to the middle of the back of his neck and partly covered his ears; a short hairstyle by civilian terms she figured. He wasn't muscular, not like the Guardsmen under her command, but he wasn't fat either. To her, he looked, well, average. The main interesting fact was that he stood almost a head taller than most of her Guardsmen. She figured he was almost 6", which was getting close to the height of the Adeptus Astartes (Space Marines), who's minimum height was about 7".

Despite his average appearance and that it corroborated with his claim of being a civilian, she was still planning to execute him simply because she assumed that he was lying. After all, even the most normal person could be a heretic or something. However, she halted when he brought up that he was telling the truth, and that he wouldn't dare lie to the person pointing a gun at him. She didn't trust him, but this was at least interesting, so she decided to continue to question him. He wasn't going anywhere, so she could just execute him at her leisure.

"Then what were you doing sleeping in the barracks?" she asked simply, her hand still on the gun. The man gave an attempted shrug. "Last thing I remember," stated the man, a hint of fear in his voice, "was going to sleep in my apartment. Next thing I know, I'm getting beat over the head and tied to a chair!"

Now, the woman wasn't an expert at High Gothic, or even at telling if someone was lying or not. But the way this young man spoke, the fear in his voice and how fervently he stuck to his story, it made her feel that he was, maybe, telling the truth.

Faltering for a moment, the woman holstered her service pistol. "I am Commissar Whilimina Fargas, and you will tell me EVERYTHING, or so help me Emperor, I will execute you and throw you to the rats."

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Oh God, she was a Commissar. That seemed to hit home more than that she, Commissar Mina as he called her in his head, used the phrase "so help me Emperor". The man's mind began to bubble with previously useless information. He snapped out of his daze long enough to look at Commissar Fargas and ask a simple question. "Ma'am, can I have my glasses." The woman gave him a quizzical look, so Michael decided to elaborate. "I can't see without them. Bad eyesight. They're rectangle framed, might be by where I was found?"

At this request, the Commissar stared at the man for a moment. She then turned around, opened a previously unseen door and said a few words with the person on the other side. Closing the door and turning back around, she sat down. "They're on their way. Now talk."

The man nodded, and began. "I was a student. In, um. Entertainment media." It was easier than saying he was an animation student he figured. "Last thing I remember, like I said, was going to sleep. In my apartment. I don't remember anything about going to any barracks. And," he said, squinting and leaning forward to get a better view of the double eagle pin, "judging from THAT, I'm a hell of a long way from home."

"Why would this," asked the Commissar, pointing at her pin, "mean you're a long way from home?" The man looked at the woman with as much seriousness as he could without his glasses. "Ma'am, what year is it? Judging from that, I'm going to assume it's somewhere between 39,000 and 41,000 AD, give or take a few hundred years. And seeing as you used the word Emperor, I'm going to guess I'm right. I'm out of space and time by about….35,000 to 39,000 years, give or take."

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The man's words hit Mina like an Earthshaker round. Maybe he was lying, and Emperor's light, she hoped he was. She hoped that he was the best damn liar that she ever met, and that something like this had not happened. But what made her doubt that he was lying was how calmly he said it. It was like he was talking about the weather or something. It was downright unnerving. "So," she said slowly, "you're from…the year 2000? Or around there?"

"2010 to be exact." he said, unnervingly calm.

"Then how did you get here?" She paused for a moment, then decided to ask the question that had been pestering her. "And how did you know when you were?"

"Like I said, I don't know. It's not like I had a DeLorean and a stretch of road." Mina raised an eyebrow at this, but didn't comment. "As for how I knew when I was…I'd rather not say." When Mina raised an eyebrow again, the man quickly followed up with "I'm not a Psyker if that's what you're thinking of. Seriously, get an Inquisitor or something in here. Someone that can test me out." For a moment, Mina's expression was one of genuine surprise. Not only did this man know of the Imperial Inquisition, he actually suggested she call an Inquisitor in here to interview him. He was either raving mad, or he was telling the truth. She wasn't sure which frightened her more.

"Fine. We'll have an inquisitor check you out, but not now." she said, walking around behind Michael's chair.

"Ok, but why not now?" he asked as the Commissar undid the bindings holding him to the chair.

"Because. We're in the middle of a war." To help emphasize the statement, the room shook slightly for the first time during the interrogation. Pulling the man up by the shirt collar, she pushed him around and out the door. "Down the hall, take a right then a left. Get fitted out. You've been drafted into the Guard! Move your a**!" And with that, Commissar Fargas ran off in the opposite direction, drawing her pistol and barking orders to any of the Guardsmen she passed.

--------------------------------

"Oh ******** my life." muttered Michael as he turned and ran to the armory. It was only on his way there that he realized that he never gotten his glasses.

 

[Silvia Crow]

Chapter 2: The right tools for the right job

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The base was in an uproar. Guardsmen ran through the halls, some shouting orders, most carrying their weapons. The foundations shook on occasion, and ever so often dust would fall from the rockcrete ceiling. Michael did his best to avoid bumping into any of the bustling soldiers, which was actually quite a feat. He managed to accomplish this by dodging and weaving though the crowd, occasionally spinning on the balls of his feet to get past people. It was a skill he picked up back in middle school when he had to get to his locker between classes, though back then he was carrying a backpack almost as big as he was.

Quickly dodging here and there between the solders, the man finally made his way towards the armory. The directions he had received from the Commissar were simple enough, and even if he had gotten lost, there were the words "ARMORY" spray painted on the walls with an arrow pointing in the proper direction. The soldier traffic slowed down a bit here, so Michael was able to walk normally as opposed to his previous dodging and weaving. Upon entering the armory, it appeared that nobody was in. Taking a quick look around, it seemed that the "armory" was little more than a small waiting room with a counter, a door leading to the room behind the counter, and behind that stretched various racks of Guard equipment. The gear ranged from lasweapons, flak jackets, a few autoguns, various specialist weapons, ammo, parts, and various other essential items.

"Um, hello?" called Michael carefully as he slowly made his way toads the counter.

"Hello?" he asked, placing his hands on the counter and peering into the armory. "Anyone here? I, um, I need my gear. Just, uh, just got drafted…"

The man jumped as a a person wearing a rust red robe seemed to appear out of nowhere from behind the desk. It was almost as if they had sprung up out of the ground. Upon closer inspection, the person seemed to have various mechanical parts poking out of their robe. When they lifted what appeared to be a ledger up, it looked like the ledger was fused to their hand via various electronics. On the very top portion of the robe was a red and steel grey cogwheel with a half machine skull.

A member of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

"Name?" asked the mechanical priest in a voice that sounded like steel being clanged together.

"Um, Michael."

The priest examined the ledger for a few seconds, then shook his head under the hood. "You are not on the list."

"Yeeeeeah, like I said, I was just drafted. Like, not more than five minutes ago. But Commissar Fargas. Call'er up. Ask her yourself."

The priest paused for a moment, considering this. He motioned off to the side, and a servitor shuffled over. Michael tried to suppress a shiver of disgust at the brain dead human/machine combination. The priest spoke a few words, and the servitor shuffled off and into a back room. "Please wait a moment, I will contact the Commissar." And with that, the Priest moved off to the back room where the servitor had gone. Apparently, there was a vox set back there, as Michael could hear the faint sound of static.

So, with nothing better to do, Michael hopped up and sat on the counter, legs swinging back and forth and looking around nervously. However, he wasn't sitting for very long when a Guardsman ran up. The Guardsman wasn't wearing a helmet, and appeared to be just slightly older than Michael, so around the mid to late 20's. His hair was blonde and cropped, and his nose appeared to have been broken several times. His flak armor was decked out in urban colors and scratched around the joints, a testimate to the wear and tear the armor went through.

"Ya Michael?" he asked, slightly out of breath. The man's accent was, at best, southern. Or at least what sounded like a southern accent.

"Um, yes sir," said the younger man, hopping off the counter and standing at what could be considered an attention stance.

"Good. Ah that thang the Commissar asked fo', tol' me to give it ta ya." The guardsman extended a hand, in which rested a pair of rectangle frame glasses.

Taking the glasses, Michael put them on, blinking a few times to get his eyes to focus properly after having not worn them for so long. "Thanks," he said, doing his best to smile at the older man.

"No pra'em," said the older man. "Well, shoo' probably tell ya, name's Danthol Harris, an' ah spose ah'm yo' commanding' offisah. Yo' been assigned ta mah squad."

"Oh, um, ok, sir." said Michael, a tad nervously. The younger man jumped when Dan clapped him on the back. "Boy, jus' call me Dan. Erry buddy does. I ain't like tha Commissar, I ain't gonna blow yo' brains out." The man had a wide, friendly grin on his face, and Michael couldn't help but smile back. "Now, less get'cha kitted out." Walking over to the counter, Dan gave the wooden surface a quick rap with his knuckles. "Yo! Benny!" he called towards the back room. "We gots us ah soldier in need ah' some gear! Git'chore oily mech a** out here pronto!"

"Uh, Benny?" asked Michael with a chuckle as the Techpriest came out from the back room with the vox set.

"Nickname we gots fo' the Cogboy. Real name's Benjamin, an' we know it drives him crazy when we call'em Benny."

"What is it Danthol? I'm very bus-" Benjamin cut off when he saw that Danthol was referring to Michael as the solder in need of gear. "Oh. Him. Well I just got a very…colorful confirmation from Commissar Fargas. Mr…Michael, has been cleared to receive his gear." The Techpriest pressed a button on the wall next to the counter, causing the door to open.

Looking to Danthol, Michael made his way into the back and examined the gear. "So, what am I going to be needing? Armor, a weapon, ammo, and what else?" He was already picking out a fitting flak vest and fatigues as Dan began to answer. "Wael, ya gonna be needin' ah pack ta' carry all that stuff. Them little belt bags'll work nicely. And yer gonna need ah helmet. Last thing ya need is yer brains splattered splattered all over tha' building'. Otha' than that, ya don' really need much. We jus' playin' defense ri' now."

Michael had moved onto the weapons after changing out of his clothes and into the combat fatigues and flak armor. He looked unimpressed as he looked over the lasguns. "Do I really need one of these….flashlights?" he asked Dan, who chuckled. "Stan'dad issue fo' ah Guardsman son." Looking down the row of weapons, Michael's eyes landed on a roughly boxy looking weapon. "Hello," he muttered picking it up. The gun felt heavy in his hands, and cold to the touch. It looked like a souped up version of a machine gun to him.

"Naw, ya don' one'a them." said Dan walking over. "Lasgun's much mo' reliable. Ammo's lighta' ta' boot."

"Autogun, right?" asked Michael looking the weapon over. He didn't need to see Dan's nod to know he was right. An autogun was essentially a souped up machine gun. The mechanics seemed to have changed very little from back in the 21st Centruy, which was a good thing for Michael. "I'll take it. Figure a little extra weight's acceptable when it means the enemy'll bleed out in the dirt." He was expecting Dan to say something, but the older man simply shrugged. "Fine by me. Yo' the one tha's gotta lug it around." With a muttered "yeah, I know", Michael grabbed himself a few sickle shaped clips and a drum or two of ammunition.

After he had gathered all his essential equipment, Michael stepped out of the armory, still fidgeting with his various straps, doing his best to make sure the weight was even. "So," he said as Dan stepped out of the armory after him. "What now?"

"Now? Na' we get'cha ta the fron' lines ta' get ta' killin'."

"Oh. Ok. Um, this is probably a stupid question, but who are we fighting again?"

"Boy, you been liven' unna' ah rock? We fightin' heretics!"

"Oh, is that all?" With a shrug Michael trotted off in the direction he had seen all the other guardsmen headed when he was looking for the armory.

 

[Silvia Crow]

Chapter 3: Suicide Mission

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The hallways were mostly empty now, the soldiers already outside fighting. A few people ran about, more than likely on communications detail or some non-combat role. Danthol and Michael hurried towards the nearest entrance to what Dan called "the trenches". They didn't quite run, nor did they walk. It was more a hurried jog if anything, which caused the rubber soles of their boots to create a strangely loud "thock" noise. Michael was already regretting choosing the autogun over the "flashlight", as the weight of the ammo alone was starting to wear him down. But of course, it was too late to go back now.

"So," said Michael, a little out of breath already, "What's the situation like?"

"Oh, you'll see soon enough boy," replied Dan with only a hint of mirth in his voice. That sort of reply was hardly ever good, and a chill ran up the younger man's spine.

As they neared the end of the hallway, the sounds of battle grew louder and louder. The noise however was muffled by a large blast door, to which Dan opened with a quick button presses. Upon the large door opening, the two were greeted by an almost deafening din of battle. The "krack" of the guardsmen's lasguns were only drowned out by what Michael could only assume were Basilisk emplacements. There were other noises as well. The "choom-choom-choom" of an Autocannon somewhere down the line, the occasional "Ka-koom-ka-koom" of a Heavy Bolter emplacement, and a whining "crack" of the occasional Lascannon battery.

The trenches themselves were, surprisingly, a lot better looking than Michael had first thought. Instead of messy, muddy trenches like one might have found in WW1, these trenches seemed to have been built out of rockcrete and were, for the most part, well maintained. The exception of course was for the occasional overspill of mud, the gouges carved out by enemy munitions, and, naturally, the dead bodies. Looking up and back, Michael saw the base he had just walked out of. Had bullets and las rounds not been whizzing by his head, he would have stared in awe. The base itself was tall enough to be considered a small skyscraper, and looked more like a cathedral made of white-grey concrete. The entire complex was pockmarked with scorch marks and, in places, actual holes from more explosive and heavy munitions.

Turning back towards the battle, Michael noticed two things. First was the environment in which they were fighting. The young man grumbled and scowled at the sight of a bombed out cityscape that spread out in front of him, at least until the smoke and dust obscured his vision. City fighting was always a messy business.

The second thing he noticed was the enemy. Thankfully, there were no Traitor Marines in sight. There were, however, plenty of traitors and heretics, most taking cover behind the rubble and downed buildings. Most wore ramshackle armor, seemingly made from equal parts scavenged pieces of guardsman flak armor and scrap metal. They also wore the Star of Chaos on their armor, and sometimes tattooed or branded onto their skin. Surprisingly, this didn't really have an effect on Michael. He had expected a headache, nausea or something, but he felt no ill symptoms other than the usual fear and uneasiness at getting shot at. He was about to ponder why this was (Perhaps it was because he had not grown up in the 41st Millennium or something), when Dan shoved him to the ground.

"GIT DOWN YA FOOL!" barked the blond haired man as he took cover behind the trench, pulling Michael down with him. "What in tha Emperor's name were ya just standin' around for?! You wanna get shot?"

"Oh, uh, sorry," replied Michael, slightly embarrassed at being yelled at, "I got distracted."

"Yeah? Well that'll get ya killed out here."

"Sorry. So, are we just repelling these guys, or what?"

"Pretty much." Dan popped up and fired off a few shots, the dropped back down as several replies whizzed back over his head. "We can't really do much with them pinning us down like this."

"Well," said Michael, leaning up and glancing over, "We could always flank them."

"Well, that'd be suicide." replied Dan, pulling the younger man back down so he didn't get shot.

"Well so's staying here getting shot at. I'm not much for getting myself killed, but I'd rather try to do something rather than waiting for some wayward shell to blow me to bits." Truthfully, he just wanted out of the trenches, as the constant lasrounds and autogun fire whizzing over his head was starting to give him a panic attack.

"Well newbie, what'id ya have in mind?" asked Dan, somewhat skeptical.

"Well," said Michael pointing down the trenches, away from the main line, "There's some close buildings over that way by the looks of it, where they collapsed. We go all sneaky like through there, pop up behind those emplacements they have up in the buildings, and jack'em up." Maybe turn their own guns on them or something.

Dan stared at Michael for what seemed like an eternity. "You're insane." he replied flatly.

"Just a little, but it helps. You coming?" As he finished the question, a line of Heavy Bolter fire slammed into the wall behind them, showering them in a fairly light dusting of debris.

"Fine," grumbled Dan, "But let me round up a few guys. We're gonna need help if we're actually gonna do this." He scooted off down the trench, and Michael was pretty sure he heard the older man mutter something about getting themselves killed.

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Minutes later, Dan returned, hunched over and leading three more guardsmen. He wasn't really feeling too good about this, but as Michael has said, it was better than dying in a trench to a stray shell. The three he had with him were Eva McKellon, Jacob Bores, and Renald Pater. They just happened to be the three he first came upon one his way down the trench, and he didn't feel like going further to pick up more for a suicide mission.

"'Oo the 'ell is this Sarge?" asked Eva, a tall young lady sporting dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail and tribal tattoos along her face and arms.

"This," said Dan, jerking a thumb at Michael, "Is the kid that came up with this batshit crazy idea."

"So, why are we doing this again?" asked Renald, a short soldier that could barely be called a man. He was obviously younger than Michael, but he had that look like he's had ten times more experience. He ran a shaking hand through his short red hair.

"Well," said Jacob in a deep tone, "It's more productive than siting here waiting to die." The big man glanced over at Michael, who nodded. Jacob grinned and patted Renald on the back with a flame scarred left arm. "Don't worry Ren, it'll be all right."

"Like hell it will be!" retorted Renald.

"Everyone shut up!" barked Dan. With that, everyone quieted down. "The basic plan is ta go through these buildings," he motioned to the ruined buildings which made the outside of the plaza in which most of the fighting was taking place, "do our best ta not get killed, an' try and take out those emplacements." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the muzzle flashes coming from one of the upper floors of what was once a hotel. "That clear?"

"Yes sir." came the reply from the four other squad members.

"Right." Looking up over the trench once more and making sure that there was no attention towards where they were, Dan jerked his head towards the nearest downed building. It was only a few yards from the trench, and thankfully covered by enough debris to conceal them for long enough to sneak into the ruined buildings.

"Let's go." Dan jumped up over the trench and ran in a crouch, making his way towards the cover of the debris. He hoped and prayed that this wouldn't end up getting them all killed.

 

[Van Evok]

Well, nice and all, I always wanted to do the time travel in opposite direction, a bunch of Marines landing in our times (via warp time distortion- why not?) would be certainly for a culture shock. There is no Empreror? No chaos gods to fight? People are worshipping ancient deities or none at all?  

[Silvia Crow]

Van Evok

Well, nice and all, I always wanted to do the time travel in opposite direction, a bunch of Marines landing in our times (via warp time distortion- why not?) would be certainly for a culture shock. There is no Empreror? No chaos gods to fight? People are worshipping ancient deities or none at all?

I could see the ending be a lot like the end of Planet of the Apes.

"Oh Emperor! We blew it all up! It was Terra after all!"  

[Blood Raven777]

hey Silvia Crow, that is good, that was a good read  

[Jason Kharo]

I hope you continue this, I would love to see the conversation between the Inquisitor and Michael. Able to answer all their questions and tell them various things, haha, it would be so funny.  

[Thy_obsessive_freak]

To be honest I was about to read all of it until I realised it was suppose to be someone from today's era in the Warhammer. Sorry but those don't interest me the slightest.

What I will say though was that it was really well written, before you directly described how the main character was feeling, he had the impression he was like that before you put 'his tone irritable and tired as opposed to scared' again I really liked that description.

Also mention as criticism, eye patch really, sorry but I get agitated by how someone needs an eye patch and just a single scar to look tough and how commonly it's found. Like could you have put something like scar(s), harden grit flesh or slightly misplaced jaw or burns, really I just want people looking for other methods.

Again would've read it all, most because of how well written and smooth it is, with how well you have control over your characters, but I'm just not a fan of this sort of story.  

[Silvia Crow]

Full, current story can be found here.

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The Green Tide and Mr. Exposition


The guardsmen had rallied quickly in the short lull between the initial attack and the second wave. The less hurt soldiers managed to get a rough barricade together from the scrap heaps that were once Ork trukks and trakks. Supplies were salvaged from the destroyed Chimeras and at least one enterprising guardsman tried to get the Multi-Laser on one of the less damaged tanks working again.


"Man I hate this waiting," grumbled Renald, who was hunkered down behind a ruined Wartrakk. He had come out mostly unhurt aside from a few scrapes. "Don't worry," replied Jacob as he made some slight adjustments to his Melta. "The Orks'll be back soon enough." Despite the situation, the large scarred man was calm. He was almost always like this during battle. Renald had asked him about it once, how he was so calm when he very well may die. "There's no point in worrying about something that will eventually happen. The Emperor's got a plan for everyone." Renald thought it was all rather silly, but he wasn't about to tell his friend that.


"That's not a comforting thought Jake," replied Renald.

"Sorry Ren," said Jacob, adjusting the sight of his gun, "But think of this: We finish up here, we can go back to the barracks." He nudged his younger friend with his shoulder. "Cheer up, it can't get wo-"

"Don't you dare say it," interrupted Renald. Jacob only laughed.



The Guardsmen were lucky. They were at least able to hear the Orks before they saw them. The rumble of their engines and their warcries were signal enough to get ready for the attack. Dan sent up a silent prayer to the Emperor, thankful that the Orks were so stupid. The first of the Ork vehicles broke into the market square, and was promptly obliterated by a hail of lasgun fire. The next few slammed into the burning wreck, and then each other, causing a catastrophic pileup. To the Guard's credit, they didn't let up their attack, mowing down any surviving Orks with a flurry of shots.


And then the bug trukks came. The Battlewagons smashed through the pileup, heedless of any surviving Orks that may have been in the way. The Guards lasguns did little to stop these smoke belching behemoths. The Wagons drove full speed for the Guard lines, guns blazing, and the guardsmen in its path only had seconds to jump out of the way, lest they be crushed under the treads. As each of the Battlewagons--three in all--passed through the Guards lines, Ork Boyz disembarked and charged the entrenched soldiers, yelling war cries and swinging their choppas.


Renald and Jacob, both of who were close enough to one of the Wagons to become targets for the dismounting Orks, acted quickly. Renald brought his lasrifle up and, with barely a second's aiming, put a lasround between the beady red eyes of a charging Ork. He followed up with a second, this one through the Ork's left eye, dropping the greenskin. Not stopping to admire his handiwork, Renald moved onto the next target, popping another Ork in the ear, sending it's brain flying out the other side, then a third with two well placed shots through the Ork's open mouth, severing the spinal column.


While Renald was picking off Orks like some sort of video game, Jacob was doing his best to take out the Ork armor. He managed to burn a deep gouge into one of the Wagons as it passed, the scrap metal oozing where the melta blast impacted. One or two Orks crawled out, limbs reduced to ash. Without stopping to admire his handiwork, Jacob turned and took aim at his next target, a War Trukk with a squad of Boyz, all itching to get stuck into the fight.


Further down the line, Dan, Eva and Michael were barely holding the line with some other guardsmen. With Dan calling out targets, the squad mowed down just about anything that got close with a hail of lasfire. However, the might of the Imperials' weapons were not enough to stop the mass of charging Orks. A few Boyz broke through and started tearing into the guardsmen. One was taken out by a bayonet to the chest and a hail of lasfire on full auto. Another jumped down at Eva from the wreckage they were taking cover behind. She speared it through the chest with her bayonet and, using the Ork's own momentum, flipped it over her, onto the ground, and fired off a handful of shots into the Ork's chest. Pulling her rifle out, she followed up with two more to the head, then turned her attention back to the oncoming horde.


Dispatching one of the smaller Boyz with a double tap to the face, Dan swung his rifle around onto his back, and drew his sidearm, a laspistol. Taking the pistol in two hands like one would at a firing range, he began picking off Boyz left and right. Whereas Renald was scary accurate with a lasrifle, Dan was scary accurate with a laspistol. Headshot, headshot, chest then double tap to the head, kneecap to head. Anything he shot was either dead or finished off by one of the other guardsmen.


At the heart of the line fighting though was Michael. His sense of self-preservation had gone right out the window when the Orks had jumped into close combat. Having discarded his empty lasgun, the young man was going to town on any Ork that got within reach of his Choppa wielding cybernetic arm. He hadn't had any training with the weapon, which amounted to nothing more than a sharpened hunk of metal on a stick, but his arm did most of the work. The gears and servos, combined with the sheer force of the weapon resulted in cleaved limbs and split skulls.


"Having fun are we?" came a voice inside of Michael's head.

"Who the..." began Michael until he realized the voice. "Oh you a**."

"Ah tut tut tut, manners," replied Tzeetch with a chuckle that seemed to reverberate through Michael's ******** you and ******** your manners," growled Michael as he lopped off the arm of an over eager Ork that was invading his personal space. "If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit busy."

"Oh, right, that." replied the Chaos God in a bored tone.


And then everything stopped.


"What the nine hells?" muttered Michael as he stared up at the frozen Ork that had, moments ago, been bearing down on him. Looking around, he realized that everything had frozen still. Everything except for a bird headed figure walking towards him, passing through the rubble, soldiers and frozen gunfire as if it was all smoke.


"You stopped time?" asked Michael, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I can do that," replied Tzeetch casually.

"Right," said the young man. "So, I assume you want to talk or something?"

"Aww, how'd you guess?" replied the God in a mocking tone.

"Gee, I wonder." countered Michael dryly.


The two stared at each other, obvious dislike painted on their faces. "So," began Tzeetch, turning around. "I've...never done this. This....'exposition'...thing." This earned a raised eyebrow from Michael. "But I feel...compelled," the Chaos God spat the word, "to explain why you are here."

After a few deep breaths, the God continued. "You're going to be my pawn." It looked to almost physically hurt the deity to explain the plan.

"Yeah, kinda figured that" interrupted Michael, but Tzeetch ignored him.

"Specifically, you're going to balance the scales on this planet. If things keep proceeding untouched and unaltered, then, well..." The God paused, searching for the right words. "The s**t will hit the fan." Tzeetch turned his bird like head to look at the young man. "The other three gods have a foothold on this planet. The short of it is that if Chaos takes a hold of this planet, the scales of divine chaos power will tip in their favor, leaving me high and dry."


Michael raised an eyebrow. "And that would be bad because...?"


"I'm the one that keeps those yahoos in check" replied Tzeetch. "They all but serve me. Khorne changes living, breathing creatures into dead piles of meat and bone. Nurgle changes healthy beings into diseased mockeries of their former selves. Slaanesh changes people from all upright and moral into debased endorphin jockeys. Change, change, change."


Michael sighed. "There's no way I can say no, is there?"


"Nope. This is all out of my hands."


"But....you're the schemer. The puppet master. Who could pull YOUR strings?"


The God paused and thought. In the end, he knew now was not the time to tell his future pawn. Instead, he smiled as only a bird faced god of plots and schemes could. "Spoilers," he said, wagging a finger.


"Right," Michael sighed and rolled his eyes, "What am I going to have to do? And remember, you mentioned I'd get sent home when I did your dirty work."


"I remember boy." The annoyance was evident on Tzeetch's face. "As I have told you, the other three gods have a foothold here. You're going to loosen that foothold."


"Just me?" asked Michael, somewhat alarmed.


"Of course. It shouldn't be too hard. After all, you'll have a few key patrons backing you." Tzeetch's gaze shifted past Michael, and the young man turned. Walking over from the opposite side of the battlefield was a tall, imposing man with flowing black hair and a glowing halo of light. At first Michael was unsure of who the second patron was, until he noticed the double headed eagle pin on the man's polo shirt.


It was the Emperor walking towards Michael and the Chaos God, dressed in a red polo shirt, cargo jeans and flip-flops.


It took Michael a few moments to get his mouth working again. To nobody in particular, he said "You're ********' shitin' me." Turning to Tzeetch, Michael pointed to the Emperor, a confused look on his face. "For serious?"


"Yes, for serious," replied the Emperor. "Normally, I would be 110% against this and I would PERSONALLY strike down anyone suggesting working with Chaos. But...."


"This is mutually beneficial for the both of us," continued Tzeetch. "I maintain a rein on the Pantheon..."


"And Chaos is defeated here and another planet is secured for the Imperium," finished the Emperor. "Also, the Imperium gets a much needed moral boost when you kill those demons."


"Wait, kill the WHAT?!"


"Uh, Emperor," began Tzeetch sheepishly, "I've not gotten to that part yet." The bird headed God turned to Michael. "The skinny is that you're going to need to kill at least...three Greater Demons. One of each God. How you do that is up to you though. They're putting all their eggs in one basket, so the banishment of the Demons will cost them GREATLY."


Michael was still looking at Tzeetch with a "you're shitting me" expression. "Don't worry," said the Emperor, clapping a massive hand on Michael's shoulder, "You're going to have help."


"Right, but why me?"


"Honestly?" asked the Emperor "Because the rest of the Imperium is full of bigots and xenophobes." Michael was taken aback by this. The Emperor took notice and continued. "It's always 'kill the xenos', 'purge the xenos', ect. ect.. For this, we need someone without those prejudices engrained into them."


"And someone you can control." added Michael.


"Weeeeeeeelllll," replied the two gods, each glancing in opposite directions.


"Anyway,' started Tzeetch after the awkward moment, "We should let you get back to..." He motioned to the frozen battlefield, "whatever it was that you were doing. We'll talk later."


Tzeetch started walking away, through the battlefield as he had done previously. Stopping just short of an explosion that was in the process of throwing an Ork skyward, the Chaos God turned back to the Emperor. "You coming?"


The Emperor looked at the Chaos God, then back at the Ork that was about to attack his and Tzeetch's new pawn. The huge God-Emperor walked up to the Ork, put a hand on each of the greenskin's shoulders, and delivered a few swift kicks to the Ork's groin. Turning back, he followed the Chaos God, looking back only to flash Michael a grin and a thumbs up.


A second later, time reasserted itself. The noise alone made Michael jump, and had it not been for a few Divine groin kicks, the young man would probably be bleeding out on the ground. Instead, the previously attacking Ork was grabbing himself and howling in pain. Getting his head back into the game, Michael strode forward and lopped the Ork's head off with his Choppa.


With a suicidal grin, Michael readjusted his grip and charged headlong into the Ork offensive. What was the worst that could happen? It wasn't like Tzeetch and the Emperor would let him die after all.